


Things You Didn't Say At All (pt 2)

by WildLioness



Series: Bellamy and Clarke various ask meme [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Death, Sad, angsty, mentions of mourning, really just tears and pain, sad-bellamy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5183912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildLioness/pseuds/WildLioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mourning is a process, and it is slow, and it is painful, and it is necessary.</p>
<p>(Part two of Things You Say Didn't At All.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things You Didn't Say At All (pt 2)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is part 2 of Things You Didn't Say At All, and I can promise that it will make a lot more sense if you read that first. You could read it as a stand-alone, but it won't make a heap of sense. Do what you want.
> 
> Also - people who have passed away are mentioned. If this is a culture thing or a trigger, avoid. There is also mourning for a past character, so, like I said, avoid if you aren't fond.

Clarke Griffin has spent a long time hoping she could forget how half-healed ribs feel under bruised and battered skin. She hasn’t forgotten, despite the years it’s been since her short stint in emergency as a med student before she decided that her mother wasn’t going to live vicariously through her. 

She still remembers how to read an x-ray, and that the rainbow shades of bruises after a head injury is a miracle in disguise. Outside bruises mean it’s less likely for inside bruises.  
Days like today, she wishes she’d lost all these useful skills.  
It’s six weeks after Bellamy’s car accident. He’s on crutches, sort of, hobbling around his house, edgy after being cooped up for so long. 

He was still in hospital when they buried Echo, a solemn, and sparsely attended funeral. Her family, partly estranged. Bellamy’s friends, who are also Echo’s friends. Echo’s college roommate, who felt bad about not keeping in close contact.  
Fifteen people. 

 

Bellamy arrives home to an apartment cleaned by his loving friends, (read Octavia bullied Miller and Clarke into tidying) and empty of Echo’s belongings. Her family had spoken to Octavia at the end of the funeral, and half an hour later, had moved every speck of Echo into a hired van and disappeared.  
Clarke had been there the day Bellamy had come home, and reached for a coffee table that was no longer there. His face had tightened, he breathed out slowly, turned to Octavia and asked where it all was.  
“It’s gone.” Octavia settled herself into a kitchen stool, putting the shopping bags’ worth of post-hospital meds on the bench.  
“Gone where?” Bellamy’s knuckles were white as he clutched the wheel of the wheelchair he’d been given until his shoulder healed enough for crutches. “You got rid of her stuff? I wasn’t allowed to come home to my dead fiancé’s belongings? Just meant to mourn her in silence, with no trace left?” His voice grew until he was basically shouting the last few words. “That’s how fast I was meant to move on?”  
Octavia was visibly holding back tears. This was not the brother she’d expected to bring home. Clarke, for all the time she’d spent apart from the Blake siblings, knew the beginning of a knock down, drag out fight when she saw it.  
“Her family came. They took her things.” Clarke disappears into the closet near the door. “I kept some things for you. I didn’t know if you’d want them, but just in case.”  
Clarke returned with a box, the size you’d expect a printer or microwave to come in. She handed it to Bellamy then stepped back. What was in the box was his alone, and he could choose to never open if he wanted.

“Oh. I have this too.” Digging in her handbag for a minute, Clarke unearthed a small plastic bag. In it were Echo’s engagement ring, her necklace and the silver bracelet she’d been wearing in the crash. She offered the bag to Bellamy, and he looked at it before rearing back.  
“I don’t, can’t...” He took a deep breath. “I can’t touch that right now. Put it somewhere I can’t see it. The second drawer in the siding board.”  
Clarke did as he’d asked, sliding the drawer shut with a sense of finality. She was sure this was not the ending that Echo had been hoping for, ring locked in a drawer, because her once-upon-a-possibility husband couldn’t bear to look at it. 

Bellamy had settled the box into his lap, as he wheeled himself around to the front of the couch. Despite his injuries, Bellamy Blake was unlikely to ask for help, and knowing this, Clarke settled herself onto the couch beside where he would sit, making herself available as the stabiliser he would need to get himself out of the chair and onto the couch.  
It wasn’t a grateful look that he gave her, but it wasn’t outright hostile either, which was a distinct improvement from the first few weeks. He’d hated being treated like an invalid, despite the fact he needed the help, of which he was well aware. 

The opening of the box was slow and painful. Clarke had folded it shut in a way that was relatively easy to open, for someone with two working shoulders, and therefore, two working hands. 

“She never spoke about her family.”  
So this was how it was going to go. Spilling information about one of the two most important women in Bellamy’s life, to someone who had been there, been the woman he loved, seen all he could do, all he would do for someone he loved. Clarke knew that despite the disaster that their break-up had been, that Bellamy had few friends, and though he’d asked her to leave him alone, a lot had changed since then. 

“All she said was that they didn’t get along, and that she’d hadn’t spoken to them in years. We weren’t inviting them to the wedding.” Octavia had settled herself into the armchair across from the couch, eyes on her brother’s face as he poured himself into the hands of her and Clarke, hoping they would hold as much as they could. “She hated peanut butter, but loved those Reese’s chocolates. It’s really weird.”

He’d gotten the box open by now, and reached into it. The first thing was a photo, not of the two of them, but of Bellamy alone, looking away, body leaned into a fence, sun lighting the contours of his neck and cheekbone. Passing a thumb over his face, Bellamy smiles, before putting it aside.  
The next item out of the box is in a zip lock bag. It’s a university hoodie, and Bellamy sets it in his lap before shifting the box to the ground. His hands shake as he goes to open the bag, and he pauses for a few seconds to steady them. Tears glitter in his eyes, and Clarke knows this is it. This is the moment that it becomes real. He opens the bag, and with the hoodie in his hands, almost folds into himself, face pressed to the navy blue fabric, arms against his thighs and sobs. His body shakes, breaths catching in his lungs. Bellamy is not a large man, but appears it, tall, with broad shoulders. He looks small now, like a child, curled into himself, making a low keening noise as he mourns. It’s the worst thing Clarke has ever seen, and as she looks up to catch Octavia’s eyes, she sees it reflected back at her. This is Octavia’s older brother, always strong, always supporting, never brought to the ground. This is a man mourning the loss of a love. 

It’s something Clarke never wishes to see again, as she stretches out a hand to rest it on Bellamy’s back. They are here, and there is nothing they can do.

 

In Bellamy’s sixth week post-accident and his second week home, he no longer needs twenty-four seven watchers, just early morning helpers, and someone usually pops by for lunch, then Octavia comes over for dinner.  
Clarke has the lunch shift today, and brings beef stir-fry leftovers from last night’s dinner.  
“Broken ribs are a bitch.” Bellamy is on the couch, tablet computer in his hands, reading the latest news about a collapse in Pompeii. Ancient history is a passion, and he’s always wanted to visit the ancient cities before they crumble to dust.

It was planned for the honeymoon.

“They should be nearly healed by now. Do they hurt all the time?” Clarke brings over two bowls of stir-fry and the handful of pills Bellamy takes with each meal.

“It’s dull, but still there. The doctor said the same last time I saw her, but that was a week ago.” Bellamy grimaces at the pills, but throws them down with a gulp of water from the glass on the table. “I don’t have another appointment till next Wednesday.”  
“I can look at them. It’s been a while, but I can probably tell if something is really wrong.” Clarke looks at her plate, fork playing with the noodles in her bowl. She’s seen Bellamy in all stages of undress by this point, which is what happens when people are so beat up they can’t get in the shower by themselves, and their normal morning person (Octavia, and or Miller) falls sick. It’s clinical. However, none of that was by choice. It’s basic need.  
“If you don’t mind.” 

 

They aren’t good friends, in so much as, Bellamy can’t be alone all the time, and Clarke lives nearby, and they’ve always known each other. They were done with each other, and then bad things happened, and they don’t talk like they used to, and they probably won’t, but that’s ok.

Everything will be ok. It might take a long time, but everything will be ok.


End file.
